Smoke and Summons (Numina Book 1)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Footfalls sounded somewhere ahead of them. Rone grabbed Sandis’s arm, guiding her back the way they’d come. She didn’t protest, which meant she didn’t know the area that well, either.

  They got to an intersection. The sound of a clicking gun hammer filled the empty space.

  Sandis turned around first and choked. Rone followed her lead.

  Seven men stood gathered behind them, all in black, all large in stature except for the one in front. He was tall but lean, pole-like. He wore a black hat too elegant for the circumstances, and it was pulled down to shadow his eyes. Moonlight illuminated a long nose, wide mouth, and pointed chin, as well as the column of gold buttons trailing down his vest and silver ones trailing down his trench coat.

  He was the only one without a visible firearm.

  Sandis shook like an overheated boiler next to Rone. She mustn’t have exaggerated her importance to the grafters. He’d never heard of so many men being sent after one person.

  Their network was extraordinary.

  “I think this nonsense has gone on for long enough,” the man in the hat said. His form was unmoving, save for his mouth. Rone inched his hand toward his amarinth. “The sewers? Really, Sandis? I rescued you from those slavers, brought you into my home, and this is how you’ve chosen to repay me? And Mr. Rone Comf. Or should I say, Engel Verlad?”

  Rone stiffened. They’d found him out so easily? A very good network. They likely knew his address as well. Possibly his history. And if they knew his history, they’d know he knew the sewers . . .

  He and Sandis had never had a chance.

  Rone could have been standing there naked and felt less exposed.

  “We have to move.” Sandis’s voice was so muted and strained he barely heard it. “We have to go now.”

  “Obviously,” Rone muttered. Two guns were trained on him.

  Sandis grabbed his arm with both hands. She shook hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “That’s Kazen in front.”

  The big bad. Great.

  “Rone, if Kazen touches me, he’ll control me. We can’t let him touch me.”

  “What?” Rone asked, a little too loudly.

  Kazen shifted enough that Rone could see the bottom of one eye from beneath the brim of the hat. “I don’t appreciate being interrupted.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Rone squeezed the amarinth. Seven of them, at least six armed. How would he fight his way out of this? “I don’t like your hat.”

  Sandis squeaked.

  Kazen frowned, then took a step back. Behind him stood a petite, pale girl who could be no older than fifteen. There was a childish roundness to her face. Her blonde hair was cut in the same style as Sandis’s—straight across, about an inch above her shoulders.

  Sandis gasped. “Alys.” Her nails dug into his arms.

  He ignored the sting. “Who?”

  He saw her throat bob as she swallowed. Her lips moved, but little more than air passed through them.

  Rone didn’t understand, and he didn’t have time to sort out her fears. He didn’t know what to expect. He hated not knowing what to expect.

  Kazen pushed the blonde girl forward. It was hard to be scared of someone Rone knew he could snap like rotted wood, but Sandis was stiff as steel next to him, her nails digging, digging—

  “Wait.” Sandis’s small voice seemed to shout in the tense space around them.

  All eyes turned to her.

  “I’ll come willingly.”

  Rone hadn’t figured out a way to save them yet, but at the very least, he could spin the amarinth, pick up Sandis, and run . . . somewhere. “Sandis,” he hissed. What had she said to the grafters last time? That Kazen wouldn’t want holes in her?

  They wouldn’t shoot her, for whatever reason. Maybe, if they split up—

  Kazen settled a limp hand on Alys’s shoulders and a smug look on his face. “Excellent. We’ll discuss how you and Mr. Verlad will be punished later.”

  “Let Rone go, please. I . . . forced him to help me. H-He doesn’t have anything you want.” She took a step forward, then another, her head tilting slightly as her eyes peered across the street. Rone tried to see what had caught her attention past the shadows.

  They stood next to a metalwork factory—had he been paying attention to his senses instead of the men ready to shoot him full of lead, he might have noticed the smell. No doors—they were probably at the back of the thing. A pipe about two feet across snaked up the outer wall, bending once just above a valve—

  A steam valve.

  On a very large pipe.

  Rone’s eyes darted back to the guns carried by the men in black as Sandis took trembling fourth and fifth steps. Four pistols, two rifles. The long barrel on the rifles meant slower draw but better aim. If Rone were to run, those were the guns he’d worry about. The pistols were more likely to miss, especially if he didn’t run in a straight line.

  There were only two rifles.

  Sandis moved forward again. Kazen twitched—she was testing his patience. Did she want Rone to get to the valve? But the gunmen were too close, pistols or not.

  It had to be her. Rone prayed she’d been right about Kazen’s men.

  “It’s all right, Sandis,” he prompted her. “They won’t shoot you.”

  She glanced back at him.

  “Now, Sandis,” Kazen snapped.

  Understanding flashed across her eyes.

  Inside his wet trouser pocket, Rone grabbed his amarinth.

  Sandis bolted to the right.

  “Stop her!” Kazen launched after Sandis and jerked the blonde girl with him.

  Rone spun the amarinth and chucked it into the shadows, out of sight.

  He ran straight into the grafters.

  He landed a fist across one face and a kick into a stomach before two bullets rammed into him almost simultaneously—one in his kidney, the other in his heart. He felt only mild pressure as they dug into him and then, slowly, began to retreat from his skin.

  A loud creak sounded to his right, and hot steam engulfed him and the men Kazen had left behind.

  Men screamed. Steam clouded his vision. Rone’s skin tingled pleasantly as the scalding water sprayed over it.

  A glimmer of gold sparkled near the valve. Pushing away from the grafters, he grabbed the amarinth by a single loop, so its spinning wouldn’t fight his grip, and bolted toward the factory. He wouldn’t be able to stop the other loops from spinning—it was always one minute, all at once, or nothing.

  Kazen, the blonde girl, and another lackey ran down the street, fast in pursuit of Sandis.

  “If Kazen touches me, he’ll control me.”

  What the hell had she meant by that?

  Rone growled and ran, but not before he picked up one of the grafters’ fallen pistols. He shook the thing next to his ear. A few more shots, at least. He wasn’t an arms man, but he pointed the thing forward and shot anyway.

  He missed, but the threat of gunfire sent Kazen’s flunky hurtling down an alley. Sandis darted hard to the left, Kazen and the girl following after her. Or rather, Kazen dragged the girl by her hair. They disappeared around the building.

  Moments later, a loud, birdlike shriek pulsed through the neighborhood like the snap of a whip. For a moment Rone slowed, his heartbeat pounding in his neck.

  But he didn’t have time to sort it out, especially if any of the other grafters had survived. They’d be on his tail any second now if they had. Rone took an early left instead of trailing Kazen, hoping the roads would connect. He didn’t have time to climb to the rooftops.

  His amarinth would stop spinning any moment now.

  He knocked over a garbage bin as he ran and jumped a short fence, landing in a puddle of sludgy rainwater. The passageway stretched into the distance, but he took his first right—

  Sandis slammed into him, nearly knocking him over. The pistol ripped from his hands and slid somewhere into the shadows.

  “Hell, San—”

  “Go, go!” she cried. �
�If he touches me—”

  That shriek sounded again, louder, chilling his blood. He looked past Sandis, down the dark road—

  At the woman hovering above it.

  For half a second, Rone was sure it was a trick of the shadows, but she levitated even as she flew toward them on a single crooked wing. Black hair cascaded over her shoulders and bare chest, and her hands, clawed like a falcon’s feet, reached toward them.

  Black ashes and hellfire.

  He’d never seen one before in real life, but he’d heard enough scriptural condemnation and bedtime stories to piece together what it was.

  A numen.

  Rone’s skin seized as though he’d touched a hot stove. He turned and bolted down that long passageway after all. Sandis followed him, too slowly. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her, urging speed into her legs.

  “What the hell?”

  “Run!” Sandis cried. “Run!”

  He did, as fast as his legs would take him. Over a garbage bin and a wall built too short. The landing shocked his ankles, especially when Sandis practically fell on top of him. He bolted forward, dragging her with him. Took a corner, then another. That she-beast cried out again, but it sounded farther away.

  “How will,” he panted, “Kazen . . . control you . . . if he . . .”

  “Not me, Ireth!” she sputtered. “And then he’ll kill you!”

  A sharp pain exploded in his lower-left side. Rone stumbled, slamming his shoulder into a sludge-slick wall. Sandis urged him forward, and he forced his legs to keep sprinting.

  He knew this tearing, hot feeling. He hadn’t even heard the gun. Curses flooded his mind as he struggled to focus on the path ahead and pocketed the immobile amarinth.

  Lamplight gleamed off puddles at the next intersection—he and Sandis rushed toward it. A main street; it’d be harder for the grafters to chase them there, where there were more people out and about. A large chance of scarlets and people milling about as they made their way to and from night shifts. Surely this Kazen guy wouldn’t follow them into the open, where he and his highly illegal numen would be seen. If any scarlets were nearby, the grafters would be shot the moment their identity was known. Didn’t matter whose pockets Kazen had lined—the powers that be wouldn’t stand for such an open display of lawlessness.

  Forget the law. They’d shoot them out of pure fear.

  They reached the road. Rone turned toward the brightest lights, still running, gritting his teeth against the radiating agony above his hip. Was his pace slowing, or was Sandis’s? Either way, they couldn’t afford it. If the grafters caught up to them, he didn’t have any defense short of his own fists.

  He looked around. Startled a horse tied outside a noisy tavern. He knew this place. His old teacher lived not far from here. Surely Rone and Sandis could find refuge there, and perhaps some extra help.

  “This way.” He jerked Sandis to the left. She stumbled; he stumbled.

  People were approaching to his right. He shoved Sandis down an alleyway, behind a garbage bin, and crouched beside her. Tried to slow his breathing, but his lungs pumped desperately for air. He leaned on his right leg, trying to take pressure off his left side. His damp clothes made him shiver. Everything was cold except for the warmth dripping into his waistband.

  The men passed, talking low. Gold earrings dangled from their lobes. Just the mafia.

  Just the mafia? God’s tower, what had he gotten himself in—

  He paused. Looked at Sandis, who had both hands pressed over her mouth to stifle her breathing. Until now, he hadn’t had a spare second to register any of it. The girl. The one-winged woman above the alleyway. The number of grafters.

  He’ll control me.

  Not me, Ireth.

  Then he’ll kill you.

  Lectures from his father spun through his mind. The occult. The Noscon records. Her unwillingness to take off her coat or reveal her back. The fact that they wouldn’t shoot her.

  The name Ireth.

  Rone fell onto his backside and stared, his fingers cold, his lungs suddenly void of the air they craved.

  “You’re a vessel.”

  Cold lanced his skin as the words left his mouth. Sandis dropped her hands from her face, her eyes round as marbles.

  Holy hell in the pits of despair. No wonder the grafters wanted to kill him.

  He was protecting one of the most powerful blasphemies in existence.

  Chapter 10

  Rone’s stare was as relentless as it was hard to read. Shock, yes, but Sandis couldn’t detect any disgust or awe. Just pure, simple surprise.

  Another gunshot went off. Sandis winced. But no—that had been elsewhere, in the distance behind them. Not the grafters. Some other brawl involving neither them nor the scarlets. She couldn’t hear Isepia anymore, either. Had Alys been hurt? Distracted? Dismissed? To summon her so quickly . . . Kazen must have bound Alys sometime after Sandis left. Maybe Heath had been right, and that would protect her from Kazen’s experiments. Sandis prayed it did.

  And now Rone knew the truth.

  Her stomach squirmed.

  Rone finally tore his eyes from her. “We need . . . we need to go.” He leaned against the brick wall next to them to stand, then winced, breath hissing through his clenched teeth. Sandis stood and grabbed his elbow.

  His left side was dark and warm.

  “Celestial, you’re bleeding,” she whispered. She touched the darkest spot, and Rone flinched.

  She let him lean against the wall and checked her belongings, hoping there was something she could use to help him, but of course she had nothing but sodden clothes. Rone’s clothes. She didn’t want to make a bandage out of any of the potentially disease-ridden cloth, but she didn’t want Rone to bleed out, either.

  Her mind whirred through the medical tricks she’d learned during her time with Kazen. Nothing pertinent came to mind.

  At least Rone’s shirts were long, so she wouldn’t expose her script by tearing off the bottom of the one she wore. She used her teeth to get it started, then spat, not wanting any sewage water to linger on her tongue. She tore a wide strip.

  “Hey,” Rone complained.

  “We’re both in trouble if you pass out,” she said, and looped the thin bandage around his hip. He groaned loudly in his throat when she tightened it. It was a pathetic attempt at care, but it was the best she could do for the moment.

  “Tell me where we’re going.” She put one of his arms over her shoulders.

  He pulled it back. “I’m fine.” He straightened, then leaned back on her. Grumbled. “Ahead. Just help me walk. It’s not too far.”

  Sandis pulled him along as quickly as she could. They needed to get off the streets. Kazen wouldn’t give up so easily, but at least she’d proven she could outrun him.

  She added that to the small list of advantages she had over him. Of course, Galt could outrun her, and nearly had.

  Rone’s weight increased on her with every block. Sandis’s limbs were aching and tired from lack of sleep and the long trek through the sewers. Her legs shook with every step. But she had to get Rone help. They had to find sanctuary. She’d even risk the Lily Tower, if it weren’t so far away.

  “Right.” Rone’s voice was low and strained. Sandis tried to push her steps faster. Her muscles refused, but at least they remained steady.

  Rone guided her a little farther before a measured sigh passed through his lips and ruffled Sandis’s hair. “Here.”

  “There’s no door—”

  He leaned to his left, groaning, forcing Sandis to move or let him fall. She moved. Rone reached for a handle hidden underneath a brick and pushed it down. A narrow door swung inward.

  It was dark inside and smelled of cigar smoke. Sandis hurried them in. The way wasn’t wide enough for both of them, so she tried to ease Rone in first. But he was too big, too heavy, and her body was little more than rags. After pushing him in through the door, she promptly fell atop him.

  A groan-smeared curse erupted f
rom Rone’s mouth.

  Sandis rolled off him and kicked the door shut with her feet. Hidden. Well hidden—she would never have found that door, even in the daylight. Trying not to step on Rone, she stood, feeling around for a lamp, a match, anything.

  “Rone?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Rone, answer me.”

  “Go to hell.”

  She let out a long breath. Still alive. Light, light—

  A kerosene lamp burned to life ahead of her, illuminating a long, narrow hallway lined with shelves and hooks. At the end stood an older Kolin man, maybe Kazen’s age, though he looked healthier. He was stocky and wide, with thick gray hair cut short and slicked back from his forehead. His eyes were sharp and equally gray.

  “That is a very special entrance, young lady,” he said. His voice was not accusatory, nor was it friendly. He had bags under his eyes. From lack of sleep or from age, she didn’t know.

  His eyes fell to Rone.

  “He’s hurt,” she said, pleading with every syllable. “He led me here, said—”

  The man put down the lamp at once and took two long strides toward Rone. “Rone Comf. So this is how you finally pay me a visit?”

  Rone made a strangled sound in reply.

  The man met Sandis’s gaze. “All right, young lady. You get his feet, and I’ll get his shoulders.” He looked her over. “If you can manage.”

  Sandis imagined she was a sight to behold, but relief at this stranger’s kindness drove back her fatigue. She nodded and stepped back to the door, grabbing Rone’s feet.

  They lifted him up. Sandis said, “He’s been shot . . . his hip, I think.”

  The man merely nodded and turned at the end of the hallway, bringing Rone into a dimly lit room without windows. Several sacks and jars lined one wall, and an alarming number of weapons lined another, everything from knives to chains to firearms. Sandis recognized seven of the eight displayed.

  “Set him down,” the stranger instructed, and Sandis obeyed. He then left through another door, one that led into what looked like an ordinary flat. He came back with a bedroll and set it right next to where Rone lay.